Heavy Medicine
by Matt Schildt

Matt Schildt started writing at the creative age of ten, when he began enthralling his parents, little brother and some polite neighbors with his tales of action adventure. Finally, after years of writing zilch and getting his hide chewed for it by his wonderful fiancée Carissa, Matt wrote “Heavy Medicine” and submitted it to Blue Murder Magazine. The Blue Murder contract now sits proudly framed above his computer, reminding him to do more than check e-mail when he is at the keyboard.
mmschildt@hotmail.com.
©Copyright 2001
Matt Schildt

The steel in Charlie Espinoza’s hand was a vision of power. Even in the dim light of his shithole apartment he could see that. “Heavy Medicine” was what that greasebag Frank “Bermuda” Bilutti called it. It was a problem solver, straight and simple. You got an ailment? Heavy Medicine’s the cure-all. One dose of that baby and problem solved. Then you could sleep easy.

Charlie hadn’t slept easy in a long time. That’s why he went to Bilutti in the first place. Charlie couldn’t stand the guy, but the fact was Bilutti owed him. Charlie had been taking that moron’s money for a long time, and it was time to collect a little more. Bermuda Bilutti was the worst gambler Charlie had ever dealt with. He was a sore loser. But Bilutti had connections, and he could get things quickly. Hardware was his specialty.

Bilutti had placed Heavy Medicine in Charlie’s hands with a sense of all-importance, as if he was knighting Charlie or something. It pissed Charlie off because he could do without the theatrics. He wanted the piece, and then he wanted out of Bilutti’s pad. But Bermuda was a mouth, and he had to give Charlie plenty of lip. “Now why would a small-time bookie like you need a big-time equalizer like this?” Bilutti had asked with a yellow-toothed grin. As usual, sweat glistened on his forehead. Or maybe it was grease. “Because I’ve got big-time problems, Bermuda,” Charlie said. “A couple of them.”

Bermuda scoffed. He was about five-six and one-hundred and fifty pounds, with dark olive skin and a shiny bald spot on the top of his head. Despite the fact that it was the middle of winter, he wore khaki shorts and an open tropical shirt that displayed his sparse chest hair. It wasn’t tough to see how he acquired his nickname. Personally, Bilutti reminded Charlie of a smelly pile of dog shit in the sand.

“Yeah, well, this should take care of those,” Bilutti said as he held up the cannon. “I call this baby Heavy Medicine, Espinoza. You know why? Because every time my head is hurtin’ with a ‘problem,’ this thing is the most powerful fucking Advil you’re ever gonna get. Catch my drift?”

“I catch it, Bermuda.” When Bilutti placed the piece in his hands Charlie realized he was right. Some powerful fucking Advil. Charlie gazed with admiration at the barrel and read the engraving. SMITH & WESSON. The other side of the barrel read: 44 MAGNUM. He pushed the release with his thumb and the silver cylinder popped out, revealing six slots for some large bullets.

Charlie had to hand it to Bilutti. For a dipshit, Bermuda knew how to come through in a pinch. Charlie had heard Bilutti was good at obtaining high-quality weaponry, but he’d always disregarded the thought that Bermuda was good at anything. But this was perfect.

“Because I’m such a great guy, I now bestow this on you, Espinoza,” Bilutti said, still grinning. “And that about makes us even.”

Charlie frowned. “This is good work, Bilutti. With this, you’re almost out of the red. But you still owe me.”

Bilutti snickered. “If you need Heavy Medicine, Espinoza, you just better hope you’re gonna be around to collect.”

Bermuda’s last remarks still echoed in Charlie’s head hours later, as he sat on the torn leather couch in his filthy apartment. You just better hope you’re gonna be around to collect.

The problem was that Bilutti was right. At that moment, Charlie was doing a lot of hoping. And praying.

His problem had started thirteen years ago. He’d started gambling during his first year of high school. Small stuff at first-running a few bets on some basketball games with his pals during the bus ride to school, then progressing to the dog track during his first years of college.

After dropping out the summer before his senior year, gambling became a full-time paycheck. Charlie began running a little bookie operation. He started with a few of his college buddies, and then eventually advanced to some heavies like Bermuda. But the big trouble, and the beginning of the end as far as he was concerned, came when Charlie placed a few bets of his own with the Vincino brothers.

Gino and Al Vincino were a couple of big-time bookies who played for keeps. They were sharks, really. Merciless bastards. When somebody owed Charlie, he placed a call. When somebody owed the Vincinos, they placed a hit. Charlie knew a poor sap who got in the hole about sixty grand to the Vincinos and ended up all over his apartment. Literally. The cops found the stiff’s head in the freezer. That was Gino and Al’s little joke. They dubbed the goons who did the hit the “Icemen.” Charlie knew since then more heads were being chilled every day. He just didn’t want his to be next.

It probably wouldn’t be if he’d just stopped when his gut told him to. The first time Charlie owed Gino and Al it was twenty-five grand he just didn’t have. So Charlie secretly cashed out a savings bond his folks had set up for the college education of his two sisters. He was off the Vincinos’ hit list, but he was also out of his family. His parents, disgusted and furious with his behavior, disowned him.

Charlie hadn’t spoken to them in a year.

Shortly after that he began placing more bets with the Vincinos. This time, when the chips had fallen, the debt was close to onehundred thousand. The Vincinos had issued a deadline. That deadline was last night.

Charlie had thought about running. Just skipping town and hoping the bastards would eventually forget about him. But that was wishful thinking. Even in the land of big money, nobody forgot about one-hundred G’s. And the Vincino brothers had the capital to pay someone to sniff him out.

So when it came to fight or flight, Charlie had chosen the former. He figured it was the noble way to go. After royally fucking up his life, he wasn’t about to take the coward’s way out and run. He alone got himself in this jam, now he would get himself out. With the help of Heavy Medicine, of course.

Charlie stared at the weapon with awe. He wasn’t much of a gun guy-he’d shot his dad’s .22 rifle and .357 revolver only a few times as a kid. But this piece of steel was truly a piece of work. The rubber grip felt sure in his hand as he aimed the gun at a patch of peeling yellow paint on the wall. The .44 was heavy; he couldn’t aim it steadily with one hand. Charlie wasn’t a strong guy, though, at five-nine and a buck sixty-five. He was all brains, no brawn. Which was exactly why he needed to carry a big stick, so to speak.

Charlie set Heavy Medicine on the cardboard box he used for a coffee table and moved his hand through his dark hair. It was damp with sweat. He looked at his watch. Ten thirty-seven. It could be any time now. He’d received a call from Gino last night reminding him of the “grace period” following the deadline. Basically that meant you had twenty-four hours to rob, steal or whatever to come up with the cash without fear of getting capped. After that, your head could end up in the freezer at any time. Charlie knew, though, with the kind of money he owed, the Vincinos wouldn’t wait. They would send the Icemen.

Charlie switched off all the lights. He figured the Vincinos would  be surprised upon learning the two fleabags they sent were greeted by some hefty artillery. Nobody ever stood up to Gino and Al. But Charlie didn’t give a shit anymore. That was exactly why the Icemen would find him in this hole he’d spent the last six destitute months of his life. The first place they’d look. And if Charlie survived the hit-well, he hadn’t even considered that. He just wanted those two Vincino pricks to know he shoved it up their ass at the end. That he wasn’t a patsy like everybody else they snuffed.

The sound of the deadbolt slowly turning in the quiet apartment brought Charlie to full awareness. He grabbed Heavy Medicine and moved into position at the wall next to the entryway. He’d walked through his front door several times earlier that day, checking for the blind spot, the perfect ambush position. This was it.

Charlie realized his heart was going about a thousand miles an hour. He felt sweat streaming down his forehead toward his eyes. He wiped the sweat with his arm, took a deep breath, and waited. The deadbolt clicked open. The doorknob turned slowly. As the door inched open, Charlie saw a stream of dim light from the hallway peek through. Then, maybe three feet away, a big silhouette appeared holding a pistol. Charlie aimed Heavy Medicine and squeezed the trigger.

The explosion in the room was deafening. The .44 recoiled violently in Charlie’s hands as the silhouette’s head vaporized. As the body crumpled to the floor, Charlie wildly fired four shots at the partially open door and into the wall, hoping one of them would find paydirt in the hallway. Through the ringing in his ears, Charlie thought he heard a scream.

Silence. Charlie crouched, waiting for a barrage of slugs to evaporate what was left of the door. None came. He inched forward. He could see part of the hallway now, and blood was splattered on part of the wall. He had one bullet left in the cylinder, and he debated whether to go into the hallway. The asshole could be waiting to cap him. Charlie couldn’t hear anything. He decided he didn’t give a shit. He and Heavy Medicine were on a roll. Charlie leaped through the doorway and slammed against the wall, thrusting the .44 in front of him, finger on the trigger. What he saw made him gag.

The goon was sprawled on the floor, face up, his right shoulder a mess of crimson. His arm was pinned beneath him at an awkward angle. His pistol lay a few feet away.

Charlie moved toward him. A door opened down the hallway, a head peeked out, then the door slammed shut. Shootings were nothing new to this dive.

Charlie stood over the soon-to-be dead Iceman. His appearance was typical of a Vincino flunky: slick dark hair, a mean-looking goatee and a face that had gone a few rounds with acne in earlier years. He was dressed in a tight white turtleneck and black slacks. His face was deathly pale. The goon coughed up some blood on the hallway’s ratty brown carpet, and then his eyes widened as he watched Charlie aim the .44 at his head.

“Say adios, you fuck,” Charlie said as he spit in the guy’s face.

Suddenly Charlie felt invincible, like he was part of the vision of power he was holding. Maybe he was going loony. At this point, though, it didn’t matter.

Charlie pulled the trigger, and Heavy Medicine administered the remaining lethal dose.

• • •

Gino Vincino moved the redhead away from his crotch when he heard the phone ring.

“Gimme a minute, baby,” he said. “I need to take this one.”

Gino jumped off the recliner. He hated to interrupt her just when he was about to blow his wad, but she could wait. When his personal line rang, it was important. Only a select few had the number.

He wrapped himself in his robe and picked up the phone.

“Gino here.”

“Hello, Gino.”

The voice shocked him. For a moment Gino was speechless.

“What the fu…. Espinoza?”

“That’s right, Gino.”

Gino looked at his watch, wondering if he’d lost track of time. It was almost four in the morning. Surely it couldn’t have taken his guys this long to-

“Your Ice is in my freezer, Gino.”

For the first time in years, Gino felt spooked. He shivered as he watched the naked redhead lick her finger and smile at him seductively.

“What the fuck are you talking about, Espinoza? How did you get this number?”

“I got it off your brother, Gino.”

Gino couldn’t speak. She was next to him now, on her knees, reaching under his robe.

“I hope she got you off, Gino. That way you can go out with a bang.”

Gino dropped the phone and whipped around, facing the huge glass doors that led out to his pool. There was Espinoza, dressed entirely in black, standing outside. The glow of the pool light surrounded him, reminding Gino of a ghost he saw in a movie once. He watched Espinoza drop his cell phone and raise a big gun with both hands. 

Gino heard the redhead scream. Then the glass exploded.